Simon nodded. Joce’s voice, even when he spoke rather than blustering, had a grating quality. It was not like those who had lived in Devon all their lives. Joce had left the shire for some years to earn money as a merchant, and he had been successful, by all accounts. ‘Did you know this Wally?’
‘I saw him occasionally. No more than that. He was always at the coinings, but I doubt I exchanged more than three words with him in the last two years. He was not of my standing in the world, Bailiff.’
‘You were at the coining all day last Thursday, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course – you saw me yourself, I am sure. And then I went to the inn, before returning home. Why, do you suspect me?’
‘What were you doing on Friday?’
‘I was here most of the day, in town. I had the accounts to write up and check on Friday morning, and then I walked about the streets.’
‘Did you see anyone hurrying back from the moors, or acting oddly?’
‘Not really. I was closeted indoors most of the time. Sorry, Bailiff. I can’t help you much,’ Joce said with a leering grin. ‘You’ll just have to go and interrogate some other poor bastard!’
Simon watched him go with a shrug and sense of failing to meet Baldwin’s level of razor-sharp questioning. There was nothing more to be learned by standing in the street staring after him, though, and he bent his steps to the abbey again.
By the time he had finished his meagre breakfast of bread and thin ale, he had come to the conclusion that he didn’t like the duty imposed upon him by the abbot. The thought that he should support and assist some fool of a recruiter did not appeal to him at all.
The arrival of other guests to enjoy the abbot’s hospitality reminded Simon that someone among them was an arrayer, and he rose hastily and left the room. Outside in the cool air, he breathed in the freshness that comes only after a good downpour. It must have rained heavily overnight, he thought. He searched about for a place to sit, and finally picked upon the wall of the cemetery.
It was while he remained sitting there that he saw the abbot’s steward and groaned to himself when he realised that the man was making his way towards him.
‘Bailiff? I am Augerus, the abbot’s—’
‘I know. What are you after?’
Augerus smiled thinly. Simon’s irritability early in the morning was known in the abbey, for he had stayed here often enough on his stannary duties, but Augerus was a proud man who was well aware of his own importance. ‘My Lord Abbot has asked me to introduce you to the arrayer, Bailiff. But perhaps you are feeling a little tired still?’
Simon eyed the man. Augerus’ expression told Simon that confessing to tiredness would be pointless. ‘I apologise for being short, friend. It was just that my mind was on the murdered tin-miner.’
‘Walwynus? I suppose you have heard the rumours about the travellers? Everyone remembers the tale of Milbrosa.’ Simon listened as Augerus led the way to the abbot’s lodgings. ‘Some of the monks here believe in that sort of story?’
‘Oh yes. Some are quite superstitious. Not me, I have to say. I believe that if God truly wanted to give mankind a message, He would pick a means which would be more easily understood. Surely He appreciates how often His creation manages to misunderstand Him, don’t you think?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Simon admitted. ‘I find it’s hard enough trying to understand what all the men on the moors are doing without worrying myself about His plans.’
The steward tilted his head as though acknowledging that Simon was probably better suited to the world of men than to interpreting the will of God. He opened a door on the right of the passageway and stood back to let Simon inside.
‘Master Bailiff, this is Sir Tristram de Cokkesmoor.’
Simon held out his hand and forced a smile to his face as he recognised the man with whom he had last night shared his bed.
Hal Raddych heaved himself to his feet, rubbing at his eyes and hawking loudly. Another miner should arrive today, to take his place guarding the corpse, and he squinted in the direction of the camp, searching for a figure that could be heading towards him, but there was nothing.
He swung his arms and yawned. Holding a finger first to one nostril, then to the other, he blew his nose clean, and wiped it on his sleeve. Thirsty, he smacked his lips. A stream lay a few yards away and he glanced briefly at the corpse before strolling around the hillside to the water.
A miner all his life, Hal was impervious to the cold. His hands and face might have been carved from an ancient oaken beam, for all the effect that the elements had upon them, and he kneeled at the side of the stream and scooped handfuls of icy moor water over his head and rubbed it into his face. It was his routine, summer or winter.
His ablutions complete, he sucked up a mouthful from his cupped hands, rolling it around his tongue like a spiced wine. Not as brackish as the water nearer his own workings, he decided. A fresher, cleaner taste.
Once, when he was younger, he had asserted in an alehouse that he could tell where he was in moments, purely by drinking the water. It was a proud boast, and a foolish one, which earned him a swift pasting from an older miner who resented his cockiness, but he still believed it to be true. All the streams and pools about the moor had their own distinct flavours. This, now, this was more like a pure stream with a hint of meat in it. His own was peatier and darker; any
